


Heat

by fatcatwrites



Category: Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Frottage, M/M, NSFW, VERY BRIEF mention of an already dead animal, Wolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 12:45:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3068411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatcatwrites/pseuds/fatcatwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fic of in heat werewolves Thor and Loki meeting for the first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mrhiddles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrhiddles/gifts).



> For thorlokiweek's secret santa! 
> 
> also on [tumblr](http://pathatfatcat.tumblr.com/post/106695666150/merry-belated-christmas-to-the-lovely)

 

It’s January, so a soft blanket of white covers the forest’s floor in uneven patches. There are clumps of it scattered from where too much snow had accumulated on branches, and had then fallen off from the weight of it. Tonight, the moon rises high and full, the pull of it strong and undeniable as its light remains undiluted from wayward clouds.

 

The scent of pine and earth lies rich and heavy on Thor’s tongue – and underneath that, a tantalizing wisp of frost and slow decay.

 

It had taken Thor exactly one full waxing of the moon before deciding on hunting grounds somewhere remote – his senses, so much sharper as a wolf, are ill suited for the clamouring, bustling city life.

 

So every month Thor drives an hour and a half out of town to one of the few remaining natural parks, and camps there during the week of the full moon.

 

Though Thor’s need to turn every month is for a day only, he enjoys the freedom of running around on all fours regularly. As a werewolf, born and bred, Thor is more than accustomed to the demands of his wolf side; it is, in truth, harder for Thor to separate his human and his wolf tendencies, as he had never been truly one or the other.

 

And because Thor sees no use in denying a part of himself because he deems it ‘less’, Thor’s control of his shape and his actions come with a natural ease.

 

Not so with his parents, who had been bitten in their youth, years before Thor was born. They shift and run as the moon dictates, but will do no more than that; ever has Thor been encouraged to embrace all of himself, and yet still his parents flinch away from that which makes Thor, _Thor_.

 

It matters little, now. Thor is grown, hale and healthy, and the warmth of love fuels his very breath. Never has another’s reluctance stymied Thor’s own resolve, and never shall Thor’s confidence quake in the face of that which is unknown.

 

Tonight, Thor runs with the freedom he has been born with. He chases the wind and lopes across the land, eating up an endless distance as he circles and circles the invisible boundaries that divide up the forest.

 

There is a gnawing hunger that has started growing in the pit of Thor’s belly, as it does every year since he has reached adolescence. It will not be sated with blood or meat or drink, and grows ever stronger with each year that passes that fails to provide Thor with a mate.

 

It feels a little like wasting away, bit by bit, year by year. Thor is filled, overflowing, _drowning_ in vitality, and yet still he is empty, stretched thin over the nothingness wherein an unfilled space has been made for another.

 

So Thor searches, and searches, and searches; he will find someone with whom to share this blessed life with, of this he is certain.

 

But until then, he searches.

 

—

 

The scent hits him, when Thor is running across his land, border to border, marking and reinforcing the invisible lines that separate what is _his_ and what isn’t – it cuts through the lingering scents of greenery and pine, sets his blood to boiling as the fur on his body stands on end.

 

The only adequate word for it is _heat_ , and Thor finds it a wonder that the very land is not scorched by the fire carried on the winds. He follows it to the source, circling around and around, always keeping downwind to track his prey in order to avoid being scented in turn.

 

His caution is well rewarded – upon entering a small clearing, edged with brittle ferns and cut through with a fallen oak, Thor finds one like him, gnawing on the discarded, leftover bones of a small rodent.

 

This newcomer does not know the land near so well as Thor, has not the natural intuition of living in two skins the entirety of his life. A part of Thor takes pity, unsettled by the knowledge that such a lovely, wan creature could not last to spring by himself, but a greater part still feels within himself the beginnings of – of protectiveness, of an awareness that extends beyond his own being. There is something about this stranger that bears closer scrutiny, and in this Thor is determined.

 

And as if Thor’s very thoughts are loud enough to draw his attention, the trespasser turns his head and spies Thor crouching not a metre away. Thor stays as he is, neither threatening nor submitting, if for no other reason than to sate his curiosity – though in truth Thor has been alone for a very long time, and cannot say with any certainty that his mind is not muddled with longing and lust.

 

It’s somewhat effective; instead of curling into a defensive crouch or baring his teeth in an act of defiance, the stranger’s ears merely flick back with a narrowing of his eyes, as if to say, _I am on your land, and I am not afraid, but neither am I fool enough to trust you blindly._

 

There is an eerie sort of intelligence settled behind the soft green of the stranger’s eyes, startling – delightfully so – against pitch black fur, for it confirms to Thor that this creature is not all he appears to be, is compatible with Thor in the way so few are these days.

 

Thor is suspicious in turn, as is in a wolf’s nature, but it is tempered with excitement from his proximity to a suitable mate. 

 

Thor retains his non-threatening posture and approaches with caution, tail straight out and fur bristling, until he stands shoulder to shoulder with the new wolf. He turns his head slightly to sniff at the other’s muzzle, and finds himself greeted in kind. Then Thor feels the _thump_ of a tail not his own bumping into his rear, and he responds to the wagging with a playful nip on the shoulder.

 

Their tense posturing melts into something softer, friendlier, and a liquid, almost feline grace overtakes the other wolf’s body as he turns and bows to Thor, fluffy tail raising to release a fresh wave of _heat_ that stuns Thor long enough that he’s caught off guard when the other wolf knocks into him.

 

And then they are play-fighting, nuzzling at each other to learn and mingle their scents together, licking at each other’s muzzles, grooming each other, _bonding_.

 

Thor is convinced, now more than ever, that he has found his mate.

 

_Run with me,_ Thor says, in the only language suited to their current forms. _Hunt with me. Look at what I have to offer you._

 

Thor takes off without waiting for an answer, for he knows deep in his heart that his mate will follow at his side, always.

 

—

 

Thor wakes, turning his head from the sharp morning sun biting into his eyes. He is drowsy, still, and though the air is cold and branches dig into his back, there is a warmth curled at his side that Thor wishes to be closer to.

 

He rolls over without a second thought and nuzzles into the a shoulder, a neck, the sensitive skin behind the ear. A soft groan comes from the body beneath him, so Thor keeps going, licking and biting and _marking_ , all the while growing more and more intoxicated with his mate’s scent. 

 

Thor settles his body more firmly atop his mate’s, rolling his hips forward and bumping his erection against his partner’s. He gets a startled gasp in return, so Thor does it again, and again, and again, until his mate is panting up at him, clawing at Thor’s back as he arches up for _more_. Thor pulls back with a growl, mindless of the winter chill leeching heat from their sweating bodies.

 

_Mine_ , Thor thinks, or says, or growls – he’s not really sure, and he doesn’t particularly care. All he knows is there is a wide expanse of pale white skin that does not yet bear his mark, and that simply _will not do_.

 

His mate arches up again, desperate, so Thor resumes his ministrations. He pins the other’s hips down with a bruising grip, thrusts and thrusts and _thrusts_ , the slide of their lengths against each others’ bellies slick with sweat and precum.

 

Thor bites down on a throat, another shoulder, down the chest, rolling each nipple between his teeth and his tongue until his mate is howling beneath him. He feels something hot, wet, sticky pool between their bodies, and then Thor’s orgasm tears an answering howl out of his own throat, their cries echoing through the woods long after they have collapsed against each other.  

 

Together, they listen to the answering howls of Thor’s neighbours.

 

—

 

Later, they pick themselves off of the forest ground and properly introduce themselves. Thor’s mate – Loki, he calls himself – rolls Thor’s name over his tongue, again and again, like he’s tasting fine wine, until Thor loses himself and has his mate’s, _Loki’s,_ body writhing against him once more.

 

And still, Thor’s blood runs hot through his veins, the fire in his belly growing with every step they take together. 

 

There is no awkwardness left between them, no stiffness to their movements nor tension in their shoulders. They brush against each other with every other step and speak not in words but in actions. They shoot secretive, knowing looks at each other as they learn everything there is to know, and still not a word is exchanged.

 

By the time they make it back to Thor’s campsite, it’s nearing noon and both Thor and his mate are freezing from their naked, human skins.

 

The obvious solution, of course, is to huddle together for warmth – although, in their case, it’s more like tumbling into Thor’s tent and rutting against each other like mad beasts, until the sun rises and falls and a near-full, bright, moon calls to them once more.

 

—

 

“You’re mine, too, you know,” Loki says, later, after their most pressing desires have been sated. His grin is sharp, feral, wolfish — everything Thor has ever wanted.


End file.
